ceded
by Kristina WoodhillI would race Bruce
to the end,
but April wrangles
with my words;
this vernal season
ropes me to rake and
and hoe,
begs poking fingers
into worm caves
placing potential
at the proper depth;
I cover everything
now, smothering words;
my ear to ground,
I hear conversations
below -
gophers grumble along
perpendicular paths
(a metallic click
sets the light
at the end of the tunnel
and waits
and waits - eternity beckons)
microrhizae buddy up
to roots
I'll scratch your back
you scratch mine;
weeds get their armor on,
extending swords,
drilling tap roots
to China;
they see me patrolling,
they do not fear my kind;
up top,
words stumble,
confused by sun's
equanimity, while I,
I confess to stealing
the sun
for my garden's heat,
shameless
in my rain dance
gyrations,
secretly whispering promises
to the waxing moon;
knowing the poetry
about to burst
through earth's tentative cracks
will fill spring's pages
in a pop-up book extravaganza,
pushing dusty,
useless words
to the side
04/07/2010
